“Like hell it's enough,” Bridget cried. “I'm still standing, and so is he.”
This time Aidan caught her by the shoulders to stop her. She gave a cry of pain and fell backward into his arms. Her face was gray with the exception of the mark on her cheek where Donald had hit her.
She blinked against the rain. “My shoulder.” Her words were breathy and almost too quiet to hear.
Only then did he realize he'd been gripping her injured shoulder in his attempt to keep her from killing herself.
But it was too late. No sooner had she spoken the words than her eyes fell closed and she sagged back into his arms.
“Looks like she isna standing anymore, aye?” Donald's shout spit as much rain as hot air and the men around him remained silent.
Aidan shifted Bridget's weight in his arms. She was tall for a woman, but she was slender. It almost shocked him how easy it was to carry her, to so easily contain so much chaotic energy.
Bridget's fight this day was done. Something told him she learned more than she'd expected to on her first day of training.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bridget surely must have died and then mercilessly been brought back to life.
Everything ached from her head to her toes. No, not her toes - her shoulder. She shifted on the soft bed she lay upon, and a white-hot pain pierced through the fogginess of her mind.
“Ye dinna need to move.” The voice was Scottish, a man, his voice low and gentle.
Her body relaxed at the stroke of the subtle burr in his tone. She didn't have to move. The voice had said it was fine not to.
The subtle crackling of a fire popped in the distance and brought to mind warmth. She was not warm.
A shiver trailed up through her and brought on a fresh jolt of discomfort.
“Bridget.” The voice was calling to her.
She slowly opened her eyes. Everything swam in front of her before coming into focus.
Aidan peered down at her, his expression gentler than she'd ever seen it. He smiled down at her, and her poor addled brain could think of nothing more than how beautiful a smile the man had. White teeth and full lips with the slightest of dimples on his left cheek.
“I'm glad to see ye awake,” he said.
She attempted to move and grimaced against the onslaught of pain. “That makes one of us.” The last thing she wanted was the help of a man she didn't want to wed.
He chuckled. The sound rumbled deep and was decidedly pleasant. “Then I'll be glad enough for us both, aye?” His face eased into a look of concern. “Are ye all right, lass?”
She stared up at him and wanted to declare herself fit as a fiddle and that she'd never had a better day in her life. But she was miserable. Her face was on fire, her shoulder ached like the devil, and she was so cold she didn't think she'd ever be warm again.
“I'm cold.” It wasn't until she spoke that she realized her jaw ached from clenching it shut to keep her teeth from chattering.
He glanced toward the closed door and hesitated.
“What is it?” she asked.
He gave a flicker of an uneasy smile and settled back into a chair beside the bed with his hands on his legs. “All the blankets in the world willna warm ye while ye're in those wet clothes, and the fire can only do so much.”
The understanding dawned on Bridget. “Very well. Please send Elsbeth to help me dress.”
His forefinger tapped against his knee. “Ye see, Elsbeth and Cailean, they both went to fetch a physic to help ye.”
She slid a gaze up to his eyes. “So there's just you.”
He held his hands up in a helpless gesture and lifted his brows.
Another shudder wracked through her and made her shoulder seize with pain. “Fine.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “You are my husband after all.”
If he had a response to her comment, he wisely held his tongue. Instead, he helped her into a sitting position. He was gentle, but the movement still left spots of white flickering in her vision and set the room swirling.
He held her good shoulder and steadied the world for her. “There's a good lass. That's it now. Are ye ready to stand?”
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and nodded. He helped her to her feet, his hands still carefully, respectfully, holding her upright.
“Good?” he asked.
The realization of what she was asking him to do knocked into her with more force than one of Donald's blows. Outside, the wind howled against the strong stone walls and rain lashed at the shutters. The very idea left chill bumps raking painfully over her icy skin.
Modesty be damned. She'd sell her soul for a warm, dry gown.
“This is going to be the difficult part.” Aidan nodded toward her shoulder.
She nodded, understanding the tunic would require some difficulty to remove with her injury. “I can handle it.”
He chuckled again. “Aye, lass. I know ye can.”
A note of admiration in his voice snared her attention.
She had almost begun to relax when he began to draw up the hem of her tunic. Her cheeks were on fire with humiliation. Though she willed herself not to, she looked down at him, expecting to find him lasciviously staring at the partially nude body he was unveiling.
His face was turned to the side.
He was offering her privacy.
“So, tell me.” He eased the tunic up her torso and paused so she could slip her good arm free. “Did ye think if ye beat the biggest dog, ye'd get the most respect of the pack?”
She helped guide his hand to pull the tunic over her head. “I know it would get me respect.”
“Ending up dead willna accomplish that task.” He paused. “I need to look to ensure I dinna hurt ye.”
Bridget nodded. When he did not move, she realized the idiocy of her action. “Yes,” she said. “That's fine.”
Everything inside her trembled then. Here she stood, in breast binding and hose before her husband, whose kindness was not warranted. He kept his gaze locked on her shoulder and worked the last bit of wet tunic off with such ease, she didn't need to move her useless arm once.
His gaze flicked to her binding and her cheeks went hot. The hardness of her nipples was visible even through the layers of stiff fabric. He lifted his eyes to hers and let his hands linger over her chest long enough for her to realize he was seeking her permission.
She gave a subtle nod, and the edge of the binding popped free. He moved his hands in a slow arc around her, gathering the fabric as it unwound from her breasts, all the while those deep green eyes remained fixed on hers.
The breath caught in her throat and her pulse raced like she'd just stepped onto the battlefield. Her body was alive with the most exhilarating sensitivity she'd ever experienced. She licked her lips and only then did his gaze waver, but only to her mouth.
She drew in a shaky breath and knew it was one they shared.
Time stretched in a long, intimate moment until the last of the fabric slipped away, leaving her torso naked before him. Neither one of them moved. She watched him watching her, both their chests rising and falling with heavy breaths.
Heat pulsed through her body and hummed between her legs. It was silly to think she'd been so cold only moments before.
He swallowed. “Yer hose.”
“You can look at me if you like.” Her face flared hot with her words. They'd slipped from her mouth without thought.
He drew in a long, slow breath and his nostrils flared. “I canna look upon ye without taking ye, lass.”
Her heart wrenched with more emotion than she ever thought she'd allow her estranged husband. “Do you not want me?” she asked.
His smile was kind. “I dinna want to hurt ye when ye're already so injured.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “I've wanted ye ever since we first wed.”
She studied those deep green eyes. Not once did they drift to her breasts. “Why?” she asked.
This time it was he who studied her. “Because
though ye may be the most frustrating lass, ye have always been achingly beautiful to me.”
Her lips parted, but no words emerged. She'd had compliments paid to her throughout her life, from her family and courtiers and Thomas - of course, Thomas. But never had they been delivered with such lovely sincerity.
He scrunched his brow. “Can ye handle yer hose on yer own?”
With a laugh, she agreed she could. And she was grateful he'd give her the opportunity to do so. The thrum of insistence between her legs left her overly sensitive. She could not imagine how mortifying an untimely gasp might be.
She was naked in the same room with him now. The modest girl she'd been brought up as wanted to shield herself from the possibility of his view, but the fighter in her wanted to parade her full glory in front of him and let him have her as he would.
In the end, he placed a chemise over her head while looking away. His chivalry put many an Englishman to shame.
“Now I'm going to do something ye'll probably hate me for.” He secured the small bow of her night rail. “But first I have a question.”
Her trust tensed into something wary. “What?” she asked.
He put a hand gently over the elbow of her injured arm. “Who is Richard?”
#
Aidan grasped Bridget's elbow and jerked upward before she could react. Her entire body tensed and pain flashed bright in her eyes.
A subtle grinding pop sounded from her shoulder as it settled back into place.
Her eyes widened and she rolled her arm back. “That's amazing.”
“I dinna realize it was out of place or I'd have done it when we first arrived.” His face warmed. He’d noticed it when he undressed her. When he’d been staring at anything to avoid accepting her invitation to gaze at her breasts. “Ye will need to keep from moving it so it gets better quickly, but it willna pain ye as much now.”
He remembered too well how her skin gleamed in the firelight, beautifully perfect with the exception of the damaged shoulder dipping too low.
She stopped rotating her arm and nodded. “Thank you for fixing it.”
He nodded toward the bed. “Go on now, let me look at yer face and see if I can apply any rough battlefield physic work on ye myself.” He winked.
But she didn't laugh. Instead, she eyed him with worry. “Why did you ask about Richard?”
His heart flinched. Jealousy. A foolish reaction, and yet a fitting one all at once. “Ye said his name in yer sleep.” He paused. He didn't want to ruin the softness he'd lured from her moments ago. His attempt to get to know her the previous night had been ruinous. He did not want that repeated. “I thought ye would be distracted enough when I asked that ye wouldna feel yer shoulder go back in.”
Bridget stared past him for a moment, her eyes blank. “He was my brother.”
Was.
The single word said so much.
He reached a hand toward hers to offer comfort, but she yanked it back and looked up at him with hurt brimming in her eyes. “Bridget…”
“I know you.” Her gaze hardened to the cold familiarity he had come to expect from his wife. “I never told you that before, but I know you. I fought you on the battlefield once before at Castle Quelling.”
Aidan nodded. “I know.”
Her brow puckered with surprise at his admission. A low rumble of thunder sounded so distant, it was almost indiscernible. The storm was moving on outside and coming to a head within.
“When ye said ye wanted to train with the men, ye dinna have to prove yerself to me,” he said. “I already knew ye could fight. It was at Quelling two years ago. Ye attacked me with such vigor, but I got in a good shot. It knocked yer helmet off and left ye unable to move.”
He indicated the scar on her jaw. He wanted to trace it, as if the soft touch might erase the evidence of hurt he'd put there. “I did that, Bridget. I'm sorry, lass. It was battle.” A tight band squeezed at his chest. It was not often a man had to explain what he'd done on the battlefield. Even as he spoke, he wondered if this would once again summon her hate.
She continued to stare up at him.
He shifted in the discomforting press of quiet. “We were trying to force back the borders of England to minimize attacks on the villagers in Scottish border towns. Ye’re better at fighting than any lass I’ve ever known. I dinna mean to hurt ye. I thought ye were a man. I thought ye meant to kill me and fought only with the rules of war on my mind.”
“I did mean to kill you.” She looked down, and her lashes swept over her cheek. “It was battle, as you said.” Her voice was thin. She swallowed. “I didn't realize attacks were happening at Scottish borders.”
Disbelief flashed through Aidan, but he quickly stomped it out. It was one thing to teach a woman war, it was another to involve her in politics. No doubt her father had sought to protect her from the truth. A knight’s job was to protect, but attacks on the innocent were not valiant.
No doubt, she had been convinced her acts were noble.
“It was battle,” he said gently. “One canna know everything happening prior to or after in the moment.” He carefully touched the small line of her jaw where the scar marred below the darkening bruise his uncle left that day. “I dinna know ye'd be my wife.”
She did not look up, but nor did she pull away. “You let me live.”
“I wouldna kill someone unable to fight back,” Aidan said.
Her head snapped up and jerked free of his touch. “That's not true.”
Accusation burned hot in her gaze. “I saw you.” It was more than accusation in her eyes. It was tears. His chest ached in light of her obvious suffering.
He shook his head, unsure what to say.
“It's why I attacked you the way I did.” She pulled her hands into hard fists at her side. “Richard was only slightly older than me. He always—” She swallowed, and Aidan realized she was trying to keep her voice from quavering. “He always kept an eye on me. He kept me safe. He didn't like me being in battle and tried to watch over me that day. But I got angry with him and intentionally wandered from him.”
A tear ran down her cheek. “I left him and then I heard him cry out. I saw him fall to his knees and drop his weapon. He was helpless and bleeding, and I watched as the battle axe cut him down anyway.”
A tingling coolness trickled through Aidan's blood at the mention of a battle axe. Only two of the MacAlisters typically used an axe in battle. Himself and his uncle, Donald.
The realization sliced through him. “Ye think it was me,” he said softly.
“I know it was.” Her voice was hard with her pain. “And all of this confuses me so much.”
He wanted to reach out to her, wrap her in his arms and ease the hurt.
She lowered her head, and a tear sparkled where it fell from her eye and spattered against the white linen of her chemise. “I want to like you, Aidan, but…”
He clenched his jaw. “But?”
She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Her gaze crept upward and met his. “How could I ever let myself love the man who killed my brother?”
CHAPTER NINE
Killing a man on his knees was not something Aidan would do. Let alone on who was unarmed.
The thought had tumbled over and over in his mind like a stone in his brain. Was his uncle such a man? Certainly he’d demonstrated his cruelty in his mock battle with Bridget.
Or perhaps someone else also had a battle axe that day. His stomach churned to consider the other very real possibility.
Perhaps it had been him.
Battle was chaotic to all the senses. It was easy to be overwhelmed by shouts and clangs, the scent of blood and the fire of energy through one's veins. When the stakes were life or death, the mind did not stop to consider consequences while the body moved.
If her brother had fallen, perhaps Aidan had not noticed him losing his weapon. He hated the possibility of it being him the most, but it was the one thought his mind continued to return to.
> The physic had seen to her, assured him she would be well and left them to rest. Aidan kept his back toward Bridget while his thoughts churned through the time he ought to be sleeping, knowing she would not want his comfort.
It was difficult to remain turned from her with such haunting images in his head of her beautiful body. He'd tried not to look while he undressed her, of course. Out of respect.
But a man would have to be blind to not see anything while helping her undress. Her skin had been so smooth and warm where his fingertips had grazed.
His cock stirred to life - a damned frustrating discomfort if there ever was one.
Sunlight fell over the bed. It was the latest he'd remained there since she'd arrived, and yet he'd had the least amount of sleep. The rustle of her chemise told him she'd woken as well.
He rose from their bed. She watched him in the bold way he found he both admired and abhorred, and slipped out of bed. The chemise fell around her and swept to her ankles. The outline of her breasts was visible beneath, her nipples hardened by the chill of morning.
The mark on her face was a deep purple and left him with the urge to beat his uncle the way his uncle had beaten Bridget.
“How does yer shoulder feel?” Aidan asked.
She shifted her arm up and down in a show of tender testing. “Sore, but bearably so, thanks to your efforts.”
A moment of silence fell between them and became instantly uncomfortable. Bruises of exhaustion showed under her eyes. She had not slept well either.
“I wanted ye to join us still at practice,” he said. “No' to fight, mind ye, but to help me train the men.”
A warm smile eased away the effects of little sleep. “You want me there?”
“Ye're a good fighter, lass.” He flicked his tunic from the table and drew it over his torso. When his head emerged from the cloth, he found her gaze lingering where his naked chest had been visible.
Her cheeks colored, though he wasn't sure if it was from watching him dress or from the compliment. He'd like to think it was from watching him dress.
Her expression wilted. “My clothes. They are wet from the rain yesterday.”
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